Chapter 7 Is Levi Angry at Me?

Barbara's POV

"I'm sorry," I blurted out, mortified that he had caught me on the verge of tears. "I was just—"

"Remember who you are now," he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "You're my wife. You don't apologize. You don't fear anyone."

I fumbled for words, desperate to explain that I wasn't usually such a teary mess, but his hardening gaze made me swallow my explanation.

"Eat," he said more gently, probably noticing my flinch, before returning to his tablet.

I picked up my fork and tried to focus on the food instead of the emotions swirling inside me. The pasta was perfect, al dente with a silky cream sauce that would normally have me swooning, but I could barely taste it through the knot in my throat.

The ride back was silent again, but this time I wasn't sharing the backseat with Levi. After finishing about a quarter of the massive meal, he had received a call and left.

Just like that, I was alone with Chandler again, watching raindrops race down the tinted windows as we navigated through afternoon traffic. The sky had darkened considerably during our meal, the clouds releasing a gentle drizzle that matched my gloomy mood.

"Mrs. Gardener," Chandler broke the silence. "If something like today ever happens again, please call me immediately. I'll come right away."

His formality was oddly comforting after my emotional rollercoaster.

"I didn't know something like that was going to happen," I replied, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "I think I made him angry. Do you think... did I embarrass him?"

Chandler's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "Rest assured, ma'am. If he's angry with anyone, it's me."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Chandler measured his words carefully, "Mr. Gardener has already taken action. He's sent a team to begin acquisition procedures for Harlow Construction."

My jaw dropped. "He's buying Isabella's family company? Just like that? Because of me?"

A slight smile tugged at Chandler's lips. "Mr. Gardener is... protective of what's his. He might seem cold, but he's fiercely loyal to those in his inner circle. And you, as his wife, are now at the very center of that circle."

I sat back, letting this information sink in. The man who had barely spoken ten sentences to me was systematically destroying my ex-boyfriend's career because he had tried to hit me? It seemed excessive, almost ridiculous, yet strangely, warmth bloomed in my chest at the thought.

For two years, I had handled Isabella and Samson's cruelty alone: changing my number, avoiding parts of town, even switching to online classes. Now, with a few taps on a tablet, Levi Gardener was doing what I never could — making them face actual consequences.

When we arrived at the mansion, I stepped into the rain, fumbled with my unfamiliar keys, and entered the silent, darkened foyer. After finding the light switch, I made my way toward the living room and froze.

What the hell?

Cardboard boxes. Dozens of them, stacked haphazardly around the pristine space, labeled in my mother's handwriting: "Barbara's Books," "Barbara's Winter Clothes," "Barbara's Miscellaneous Junk."

I groaned, realizing my mother had Marie Kondo-ed me from her life before I had even processed that I was actually married. My father's note confirmed it: "Barbie, your mother insisted we deliver your things today. I'm sorry about the rush. Call if you need anything. Love, Dad."

I groaned even more loudly this time.

Though the thought of sorting through my entire existence after such a dramatic day made me want to curl up in a ball and cry, but crying wouldn't unpack these boxes, so I kicked off my shoes, rolled up my sleeves, and dove in.

Four hours later, I had managed to find homes for most of my belongings, but one box of random items still defied categorization. I stared at the homeless objects, wondering where they could possibly fit in this museum-like house.

There has to be a storage closet somewhere in this palace.

After exhausting all possibilities on the ground floor, I trudged upstairs, and the second floor stretched out before me, a long hallway lined with closed doors that suddenly made me feel like I was in a horror movie.

I tried each door methodically, and finally, I reached the door at the very end of the hallway. This has to be it, I thought. The magical storage closet where all my random crap can live happily ever after.

I balanced the box on my hip, turned the handle, and fumbled for the light switch. When the lights flickered on, I froze.

This was definitely not a storage closet.

Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling on three walls, packed with volumes bound in leather, cloth, and paper. A massive desk occupied the center of the room, its surface neat but not sterile — there were papers arranged in tidy stacks, a laptop closed but present, and a few framed photographs facing away from me.

"Oh," I breathed. "A... study."

Levi's study, my brain helpfully supplied. His private sanctum. I knew I should probably leave immediately, but like a moth to flame, I drifted toward the bookshelves, amazed by the collection.

First editions of classic novels sat alongside dense economic treatises. Philosophy texts in multiple languages mingled with modern prize-winners. There was even an entire shelf dedicated to poetry. The man I had married — this cold, calculating businessman who barely spoke to me — apparently had the soul of a literature professor. The thought made my chest tighten with something that felt dangerously like admiration.

And then disaster struck.

Lost in my literary voyeurism, I bumped into the desk with my box. One picture frame wobbled, teetered precariously for a heart-stopping second, and then crashed face-down over the hardwood edge of the desk.

"SHIT!" The word exploded from my lips as the sound of impact reverberated through the quiet room. My heart launched into my throat, beating so frantically I could feel it in my eardrums.

I dropped to my knees, abandoning my box of homeless treasures to assess the damage. Please don't be broken, please don't be broken, please don't be...

The frame appeared intact, thank god. No glass to sweep up, no splintered wood to explain. Just a simple black frame holding what looked like... a photograph of snow? I blinked in confusion, examining the image more closely. It wasn't a family portrait or a corporate achievement photo as I had expected. Just a serene landscape of pristine white snow covering rolling hills, with dark pine trees dotting the background.

I exhaled shakily, tapping my chest to calm my galloping heart. "That was close," I whispered to the empty room. I stood up, ready to place the frame back in its rightful position, when something slipped from behind the photo and fluttered to the floor.

A small, yellowed card landed face-up on the rug.

I hesitated, knowing I should just put it back without looking, but before I could stop myself, my eyes caught the delicate handwriting that looped across the aged paper.

"Dear Levi, I love you."

And below that, in the same elegant script:

"Always, Beatrice."